


Silver Thread

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: -holds up hands- EXCEPT IT'S N O T, Allurance (alluded to), Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shiro forgets things, The Black Lion, Unrequited Love, season 8 fix-it, the Paladins actually care about each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17133848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: “Something’s wrong,” Shiro tells Keith’s voicemail. On his therapist’s suggestion he’s called him several times, but since their talk he hasn’t picked up. “I wasn’t going to tell you about this. And it sounds—completely crazy. Do I sound completely crazy?” He runs a hand through his hair. “But I think my brain’s trying to tell me something. About you. I feel like I’m missing something really important and I have no idea what. Something is calling to me and I don’t…”He lets the thought peter out to dust. Shiro swallows. “Nevermind. I hope you’re doing all right. Talk soon.”He ends the call.Shiro's memories make it seem like he should love Keith—but he doesn't. It's becoming more and more apparent that somewhere along the line, something went horribly wrong.





	Silver Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I haven't forced myself to watch season 8 yet, though I'm caught up on most of the details. I've made some assumptions here about the cast and wormholes that are probably wrong, but...what can you do lol.

“Is there someone else?”

Shiro lifts his face from his hands. It’s midnight. He got home hours ago, but he still hasn’t taken off his uniform. Hasn’t left this spot on the couch for what feels like longer.

Curtis stands in the doorway, dressed in his nightshirt. He looks sleep-mussed, like he just got up to use the bathroom. Probably saw the living room light on and came to investigate. Shiro studies Curtis’ face from across the room—the shadows under his eyes. He picks at a callous on his thumb.

Dust motes swirl under the lamplight.

Shiro clears his throat.

“No,” he answers—but his thoughts flit to Keith like a moth to a neon sign. The memories of him are trails in his brain, so well-tread they’ve deepened to ruts. Months after Keith left for space, he still trips over them at night.

But the marrow of those memories are void of emotion, at least past casual camaraderie.

Shiro doesn’t love Keith.

Curtis doesn’t seem convinced. For a few seconds he stares from the doorway. Then his shoulders droop.

“You should get some sleep,” he decides, and leaves.

Shiro doesn’t call after him. Curtis’ socked footsteps are the barest whisper on carpet; they fade to silence as Shiro returns his face to his hands. The metal of his prosthetic heats the stubble on his cheek.

 A Garrison jeep rumbles by outside. The desert breeze stirs the curtains.

Shiro closes his eyes and tries to remember how to feel.

 

—

 

Shiro passes the memorial wall on his way to work every day. He feels Adam’s name on the wall like eyes on his back.

He needs to prove he can put someone before the stars. He needs to prove he’s not destined to leave everyone he loves behind.

So he buys gifts. Arranges dates at quaint, candlelit restaurants. Holds hands and trades compliments. Lets the sunshine trickle down his spine when Curtis smiles at him. Lets that heat spill over, honey-bright and gentle when they kiss.

But the late nights get later. There are silences over dinner. The gold starts to char around the edges.

And maybe Adam was right. Maybe he can’t settle down—can’t find purpose in something as pedestrian and _human_ as a relationship.

 No. For whatever selfish reason, he has to be out there making history.

 

 —

 

Shiro’s marriage survives for five months and twenty-three days. It’s Curtis who pulls the cord.

Shiro throws away his mental calendar and starts sleeping in the Atlas.

 

—

 

Shiro cuts through the Garrison gym one day. The sweat smell hits him, and he’s thousands of miles away.

He can feel the plastic give of the training mat under his hands—the recycled air of the Castle of Lions’ gym on his skin as he rolls back onto his feet. Shiro’s flesh hand quivers with the muscle memory of Keith’s body as he tackles him to the ground.

_Do you yield?_

The present snaps back to him like an elastic cord. Shiro whips around. His gaze darts about the gym; to the elliptical and the weights and the wrestling mats; to the cadet doing crunches in the corner. A girl spares him a nervous glance as she refills her water bottle.

Shiro has to get ahold of himself. He wrenches away, towards the door. He feels his prosthetic fingers close around his shirt. There’s a hollowness there, between his ribs.

At the memory, he feels…

A vague fondness. The fellowship of retail coworkers who trade gossip over the break room water cooler. Not the love of a friend you’ve known for five years. Not the bond of two soldiers who’ve conquered the stars together.

The Black Paladin. The leader of Voltron. Shiro’s memories of Keith make him out to be more to Shiro than his rank. But he only feels…

Fondness for him.

_Is there someone else?_

_No_ , Shiro thinks. _There’s not._

He’s oddly puzzled by the fact.

 

—

 

It gets worse.

The memories crowd Shiro like vengeful spirits. He spots shadows on the roof one night as he loads up his bike; mishears a voice at a farmer’s market; finds a worn red coat draped over a chair when he drops by the lecture hall.

His mind chants, _Keith, Keith, Keith._

But Shiro kicks up his bike stand. Resumes his weekend shopping. Military-folds the coat, and drops it off at the nearest lost and found.

 It’s not like he can change how he feels.

 

—

 

Keith’s never been good with social conventions. But hasn’t Shiro always been the exception, for him?

He notices—The lack of calls. The professional language. The distance between their bodies as they walk side by side down the hall.

He notices, and he gives Shiro space.

Before, Shiro could talk to Keith for _hours_. Rest his head on his shoulder on movie night. Hug him close without a second thought. Now he has to calculate every brush of fingers, every glance, every ‘good morning’ and ‘good night.’

It’s like forgetting how to walk or write. The tasks he could once perform with unconscious ease are now Herculean feats. Shiro wants to mend the gap between them, but he doesn’t know how to relearn what was once as natural as breathing.

Keith hasn’t contacted Shiro for two months now; he doesn’t even know about the divorce. Out of the blue one night he catches Shiro as he puts away the dishes.

He’s been with the Blade for weeks. Shiro forgot to miss him.

“You know I love you, right?” Keith says without preamble. “I mean. More than like a brother.”

Shiro’s thoughts lurch to Haggar’s cloning facility. He sees Keith’s wide eyes as he begs for his life. Hears a hoarse croak that rattles him to the core:

_I love you._

“Yes,” Shiro assures him. There’s a soft _plink_ as he stacks a plate. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Keith—”

“It’s okay,” he says, and Shiro can _hear_ the sad smile. It’s utterly bizarre—to be familiar enough with a person to read their expressions through the phone, and still feel like they’re a complete stranger. “I know you don’t feel the same way. I just—” A pause. “It’s been weighing me down for a while. I needed to get it off my chest. You know?”

It’s not like he has much of a friendship to lose at this point.

Shiro summons up his courage. “I’m glad you told me.” He doesn’t understand why, but his hand shakes as he sets aside the next dish. “If it makes a difference, Keith…I really do wish I felt the same way. I wish I could make you happy.”

“You already make me happy, Shiro.”

“That’s—” Shiro sets a bowl down a little harder than he means to. “Keith, I never come to visit. I never call. I never _text_.”

“A lot’s happened.”

He wants to believe that’s a valid excuse. “I’m going to do better,” Shiro promises. He’s given up on the dishes, propping his hands on either side of the sink. His metal fingers curl into the tiles, tight enough to crack the ceramic. “I’m going to figure this out.”

“Okay,” Keith says.

He sounds more sad than hopeful.

 

—

 

Often, Shiro dreams of a thread.

He closes his eyes and finds himself suspended high above the Earth. Stars glitter around him like sunlight on water. A silver thread begins at Shiro’s chest and extends outwards through the darkness.

In each dream Shiro follows the thread. He walks and walks for what could be hours or days or weeks, and when he reaches the end at last, he finds the thread frayed and curled like a dead animal at the same spot he started from. He always wakes with that same dull ache between his ribs.

“Something’s wrong,” Shiro tells Keith’s voicemail. On his therapist’s suggestion he’s called several times, but since their _talk_ he hasn’t picked up. “I wasn’t going to tell you about this. And it sounds—completely crazy. Do I sound completely crazy?” He runs a hand through his hair. “But I think my brain’s trying to tell me something. About you. I feel like I’m missing something really important and I have no idea what. Something is calling to me and I don’t…”

He lets the thought peter out to dust. Shiro swallows. “Nevermind. I hope you’re doing all right. Talk soon.”

He ends the call.

 

—

 

Shiro does his best to stave off the impending meltdown. He takes long bike rides; works extra hours at the Garrison; stays up until sunrise doing research he doesn’t need for briefings he’s not required to attend. Conquers the weights rack at the gym. Starts a collection of whatever Kraft Mac and Cheese boxes they can salvage from before the war.

At last Iverson corners him.

“When was the last time you slept,” he demands.

Shiro thinks back. He resists the urge to hike up the sock that’s fallen down against his ankle. “Um.”

Iverson claps his hand over his shoulder.

“Get some rest,” he says. His hand squeezes once, then drops back to his side.

“But sir—”

“I don’t expect to see you here for at least the next five days, Shirogane.”

“ _Five days?_ ”

“It’s for the best. You’re dead on your feet, admiral.”

Shiro’s too tired to know for sure, but he’s almost certain he outranks Iverson by a wide margin. Iverson gives him that familiar glower, though, and suddenly Shiro’s a cadet again, taken aside to Iverson’s office after fainting in the simulator fuselage.

The words are spoken without conscious permission: “Yes sir.”

“Very good.” Iverson turns to leave. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

 

—

 

Keith doesn’t call, so Shiro does the smart thing and doesn’t speak to anyone for 72 hours.

He lies on his bed, stretched out on his back. His mind floats somewhere high above, detached. He’s a dust mote, victim to the whims of the solar winds. Memories flit past his eyelids, not-quite-dreams as he sleeps. Memories of a dark, metal bond he doesn’t understand. Memories of a man he _should_ love but doesn’t know how or why.

He has the thread dream again. This time he doesn’t bother following it. He just sits there in the sky with his fingers wrapped around its soft texture, feeling the faint thrum of _something_ underhis fingers.

“Please,” he begs, to no one. “Please.”

And his eyes snap open.

Shiro’s blankets are tangled around his legs. He lifts his head, cowlick frizzled from his pillow. He wrestles the sheets off his legs and swings them over the side of the bed—twists on his bedside lamp.

The light catches on something. Shiro looks down.

A silver thread protrudes from his chest.

Shiro tumbles out of bed. He scrambles to yank the thread out, but his fingers pass right through it like it’s made of light, or stardust. Aether, maybe. His skin tingles at the points of not-contact.

Shiro’s pulse pounds in his ears. He forces his hands to still, and watches the thread flicker under the lamplight.

It’s 2 a.m.

Shiro struggles to wrangle his heartbeat under control. He’s seen weirder things in his time—plenty of them.

But there’s something new, here. New, and at once achingly familiar.

Shiro flexes his fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment; long enough to catalogue the prick of the cold floor against his toes; the whisper of ventilation across his bare shoulders.

He lets out a shaky breath. Blinks back to the real world.  

Shiro’s gaze lands on the string again. It extends across the room, straight through the door. Shiro can only make out what segments catch the light. It’s enough of a trail to follow, though, so he goes with his gut and grabs his shoes.

 

—

  

Shiro somehow knew to snag a coat on his way out of the room. He hugs the seam together with one hand as the string leads him out of the Atlas. The hangar door closes behind him with a soft suction noise. The thread steers him from the Garrison’s perimeter, out into the flat expanse of the desert. The sand shifts under Shiro’s feet. He weaves through the pockets of brittlebush like a salmon through a stream. The thread guides him all the way, white as fire under the full moon.

A coyote yips in the distance. Shiro nearly trips over a smattering of broken rock. The string leads on and on and on. His feet start to sting; Shiro can feel blisters forming where his shoes rub against his un-socked skin.

 _Please_ , he thinks on repeat. _Please, please, please._

There’s a shape in the distance that shouldn’t be there. As big as the rock formations Shiro has committed to memory, but smoother—shaped by hands, not time. Something grates in the back of Shiro’s head; pieces of flint clack together. He feels his pace pick up. His heart-rate spikes.

Metal eyes glint under the moonlight.

At last the spark connects. Shiro’s feet slip against the sand. He _runs_.

The shape gets larger and larger. Shiro’s lungs burn. The Black Lion looms out of the dark. She sits still and stoic like a sphinx, not so much as a glint behind her eyes.

She looks…dead.

Shiro’s chest goes tight. He plows on through the desert, unable to slow down. The bushes catch on his sleep-clothes; he wrenches them away.

“Come on,” he chokes out. “Come on!”

He gets closer. Closer. The Lion’s claws glint like the thread stretched between them.

“I’m here!” Shiro cries. “I’m—please! What are you trying to—what are you trying to tell me?” Black doesn’t move. “Black, come on—” Sand stings his legs as he runs. “ _Please!_ I know you can hear me!”

Still no response. Shiro chokes on air. He forces out a final plea between gasps:

“ _Wake up!_ ”

And his eyes snap open.

It’s 2 a.m.

Shiro is lying on his bed in the barracks of the Atlas. The blankets are tangled around his legs.

His throat feels sand-stung. But when he rips the blankets away, his night-clothes are free of debris. His feet are clean.

Shiro’s traces a hand over the skin to make sure. His eyes sting when he finds no evidence of blisters.

He leans forward, far enough to strain his back. Buries his face in his hands. A keen escapes his teeth.

He’s on the edge of understanding. He can still feel that flicker of flame at the back of his head. _But it’s not enough_.

“I’m here,” he says, muffled by his palms. Then again, louder: “I’m here. I’m here, dammit, I’m—” he lifts his head and bellows to the empty room. “I’m _here_!”

There are tears on his face. He wipes at them, ashamed. “Tell me what’s _wrong_ ,” Shiro demands. “Black. Tell me why I keep—why I can’t feel you anymore! Why my memories—I know I’m supposed to—to love him but I can’t seem—”

He stifles the rest against his hands. He knows he’s mourning something he doesn’t understand. It _hurts_.   

But Shiro’s never been one to stay down for long.

The hurt becomes anger. The anger hardens to resolve.

“You—” Shiro removes his hands—scrubs a few stray tears off his cheeks. “I’m going to reach you, dammit. _I’m going to reach you_.”

There’s no noise. No lights or movement. But a hum rises out of the nothingness. It touches Shiro somewhere deep within, as though ruffling his spirit.

“Yeah,” Shiro hiccups. “I’m gonna’ find you. Come on.” He forces his red eyes shut. “I know you’re here too. I know you can hear me. I’m right here.”

He extends a mental hand. Curls out his fingers towards the darkness.

“Right here,” he repeats. “I don’t know how this works. I don’t remember. But I know we were partners, once. We knew each other.” He swallows. “Please…you don’t have to accept me, or forgive me. Just help me understand what I did _wrong_.”

Silence.

For the longest moment—

Just silence.

Just ventilated airflow at Shiro’s back. Just the texture of blankets strewn across his lap.

He keeps his soul open. Lets his mind float; lets the black wind carry him.

Lets himself _trust_.

And then a violet light unfurls out of the darkness like a wild bellflower—and Shiro remembers.  

 

—

 

Keith still won’t answer his comms.

Shiro tries three times before he gives up and dials Krolia’s number. He counts the seconds as the “ringer” pings in his ear. One, two, three, four, five—

“Shiro,” a voice says.

Shiro nearly crumples with relief.

“Krolia! Krolia, I’m sorry to have to call like this—I really am—but Keith won’t answer his comms and there’s something he needs to know—”

“Anything you want to say to Keith, you can say to me.”

There’s a hard edge to her voice. Finally armed with the context of his actions, Shiro understands why. He flashes back to a hospital room he only visited once; hallways full of empty conversation. The day he told his friends to spend time with their loved ones and left knowing Keith’s family was off-planet. The times he referred to his best friend by his _rank_ and not his first name. The weeks he didn’t miss Keith enough to so much as mention him in passing.

Of course Krolia would hate him. Of course Keith wouldn’t want to speak to him. Shiro has to switch the phone from his prosthetic to his flesh hand so as not to crush the plastic.

“I need to apologize,” Shiro begins. “Krolia—I’ve treated Keith terribly these last few months. Wrose than terribly. There was—” He struggles to find the words. “When Allura pulled my essence out of the Black Lion, some things _snagged_. She couldn’t transfer my bond with the Black Lion, or my relationship with Keith. I still— _had_ those memories, but the emotion was gone.” Shiro feels his free hand twist into the hair of his forelock. “Krolia, I’m so sorry. If I had known—I knew there was something wrong, but I didn’t reach out far enough. I— _forgot_ _how to feel for him_ and I’m so, so—“

“I’ve sent the coordinates to your comms.”

Shiro furrows his brow. His hand leaves his hair on reflex. “What? Which coordinates?”

“Ours. Keith is in a coma.”

And the floor falls out from under Shiro’s feet.

He can’t move. Can’t think.

The word falls from numb lips:

“How?”  

“The Blade may be a relief organization, but we’re still renowned combatants. We get recruited from time to time to help with more… _disruptive_ matters. Keith accepted a mission without telling me. He was supposed to infiltrate a war party in the delta quadrant. He was captured and held for ransom.” A pause. “They starved and beat him.”

Shiro doesn’t realize he’s sat down until the mattress dips beneath him. The phone quivers against his ear with the motion of his hand.

“When did this happen?” he chokes out.

“Three movements ago. We rescued him three Earth days ago.”

Shiro pictures Keith on his way to a planet torn apart by civil war. He sees him alone in a borrowed cruiser, making one last phone call before entering its atmosphere:

_You know I love you, right?_

“Krolia,” he begins. Doesn’t know how to go on. “Krolia, I’ll be right there.”

“I should hope so,” she says, and ends the call.

 

—

 

Black is waiting outside the hangar bay.

At the sight of her Shiro’s heart stops. He spills out into the sand—and then he’s running before he can remember how. For a beautiful moment he is seized by pure, unadulterated joy. Like in the dream, bushes “thwap” against his clothes. His feet churn up sand, military jacket flared behind him as he charges through the brush.

“Black!” he yells to her.

She actually roars back. She's really there. The sound resonates through Shiro’s core like an embrace. She ducks her head to meet him; Shiro reaches her and throws his arms across her nose—the closest he can get to a hug with a robot over ten times his size.

“You’re back!” He feels giddy like a kid again, his first day on the airfield. “I can feel you again!”

Black shoots him the mental equivalent of a purr. He can sense her like a cat curled across his shoulders. He ruffles the spirit’s hair; she pretends to swat at him.

“I know, I know,” he laughs. He scritches her under the chin. “Come on; let's go get Keith.”

 

—

 

Shiro already filed the flight plan before he left Atlas, so there’s a wormhole ready when he and Black reach the upper atmosphere. It’s only a half-hour flight to Yagiri’s surface. It’s a dwarf planet, acclaimed for its medical facilities and service. Aliens from across the galaxy travel there to work and study.

Keith’s in good hands. The best ones, arguably. But Shiro still whittles his mind away with worry. From the moment they’re airborne all he can think about is Keith’s face. His eyes flick down to his phone for the hundredth time as he and Black wait for landing clearance. He’d asked Krolia to send him a photo along with Keith's chart; his skin is pale, his eyes shadowed. The bruises along his jaw and shoulders green as they heal, the rest of his body obscured by a papery hospital gown.

Shiro feels his throat constrict. His Adam’s apple bobs as he shuts his eyes—turns his phone down against his lap.

He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve done something.

He should’ve _cared_.

A transmission notice appears on Black’s dash. They’re clear to land. Shiro steers the two of them down onto a holographic landing strip, shoots Black another thank-you, and scurries out of her cabin.

He must look like a madman as he skids down the halls. The locals treat him to some choice looks, but note his determined air and the stripes on his shoulders and decide not to make trouble. They don’t need to recognize him to know he’s a man on a mission.

For the worst while of Shiro’s life he can’t seem to find Keith’s room. The language barrier proves a challenge when he stops to get directions. At last he shows a group of doctors the picture Krolia took on her phone. One’s eyes light up. She scribbles out a map on a data pad, then physically lifts the drawing up and onto Shiro’s phone. Shiro doesn’t even process the technical genius of it. He just thanks the doctor in what he hopes passes for Galactic Common and races away.

Keith’s room is in what Shiro suspects is the west wing of the hospital. By the time he arrives his cowlick is wild and his jacket is helplessly ruffled. He looks up as he catches himself on the doorframe, and his eyes lock on the pod-bed across the room.

Keith is in a small healing chamber. It’s about the size of one of the old Castle pods, but horizontal, with chrome edging and a padded back. Not much has changed in Keith’s appearance since Krolia took the photo. If anything, the bruises on his skin are more pronounced.

Shiro vaguely registers another presence in the room, but he can’t put Keith second any longer. He crosses to the pod. His hands seek Keith’s warm where he places them on the glass lid. Shiro stares down at Keith’s face—commits each new line and bruise to memory.

When confronted with the stillness of him—the pale sheen of his skin—he can’t hope to postpone the heartbreak any longer. Shiro feels heat crawl up behind his eyes. He braces his hands tighter along the glass and hangs his head.

A chair shifts beside the bed.

“You just missed the doctor,” Krolia says. She keeps her voice low. “It’s good news. The swelling has gone down.”

“Good,” Shiro manages. He caves, and lets his forehead rest against the glass. “That’s…” A breath. “Good.”

This is the second goddamn time this has happened: Shiro too late or too oblivious to help; Keith comatose on a hospital bed. Teardrops hit the glass, silent, and roll with the curved surface.

Silence swallows him whole.

 

—

 

There’s a lot about the room Shiro didn’t notice when he first arrived.

The chairs are recliners, for one. It’s like the staff anticipates overnight visitors. To Shiro’s surprise, there’s even a sort of bedroll drawer—currently occupied by Hunk. He slept right through Shiro’s entrance, plus a few quintants afterward. He wakes as Shiro returns with the Yagiri-equivalent of coffee.

“Shiro,” he greets muzzily. He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Since when did you get here?”

“A couple hours ago.” He doesn’t try to hide the regret in his tone. “Krolia tells me the others are here too?”

“Well yeah. Pidge, Lance and Coran left for a break, but they’ll be back soon.”

Shiro understands why he wasn’t called—he suspects his presence would’ve caused Keith more harm than good. But he can’t help but feel a pang of betrayal as he passes Krolia her coffee.

It’s official: everyone knew before he did.

Shiro presses on: “I wasn’t sure whether you were gonna’ wake up in time, so I didn’t get you a coffee. Want one?”

“No thanks.” The flat response catches Shiro off guard. Hunk sits up on his bedroll. “So you resolved your thing with Keith then?”

“My 'thing'?”

“Yeah. With Keith. Whatever was keeping you two apart.” He mimes the separation with his fingers.

So it was that obvious. Of course it was.

“Oh. No, there was never an argument. Nothing like that.” Shiro claims one of the recliners. He feels raw and brittle, like a stiff breeze could tear him down the center. Krolia takes a sip of coffee; Shiro follows suit. “There was a problem when Allura drew my consciousness out of the Black Lion. She wasn’t able to transfer my bond with Black or Keith. I lost all feeling for them—almost.”

Hunk doesn’t respond. Shiro looks up. All signs of residual sleepiness have left Hunk’s posture; he sits ramrod straight on the shelf bunk, mouth half-open as he struggles for words.

“Oh my god,” he says. “That like. Explains everything.”

Shiro blinks. “It does?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Shiro, but you’ve been a totally different person since you got back.” Blunt as ever. Shiro has to work not to flinch. “You didn’t want to talk to anyone or goof around, ever. But like—looking at you right now, your eyes are different. I can tell you’re really _back_. Your _passion’s_ back.”

Shiro feels a wash of relief. It’s been a long time since he trusted himself enough to judge his own character. Getting confirmation from a friend puts him at ease in his own skin.

“I’m—glad,” he manages.

Maybe after so long, he can finally be himself again.

 

 —

 

Pidge and Lance are less than happy to see him at first. It wasn’t only Keith Shiro neglected. His detachment meant no Monsters and Mana sessions; no comm calls; not even a smile some days.

But they respond with compassion once Shiro explains the situation. They wave away his apologies.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Pidge says. “You literally had the love cut out of you.”

Still, Shiro can see the fissure he’s forged between them. Only time can heal that. Time, and care.

On the pod-bed, Keith never stirs. The bruises fade—some color returns to his cheeks. But he doesn’t so much as twitch under the covers. And the gang would know; there’s always someone awake to monitor his condition. The Paladins swap chairs and shelf bunks. They go on food and coffee runs. Shiro can see Black curled up on the bed when he concentrates, ready for her second Paladin to awaken.

The solidarity makes Keith’s condition bearable. Still, Shiro often excuses himself to the metal bench in the hall. He’ll sit, have a minor breakdown, and return to Keith’s hospital room. Rinse and repeat.   

Lance follows him out one night.

He doesn’t say anything when he finds Shiro on the bench with his hands over his mouth. He just takes a seat beside him; places a hand on his back. Shiro’s muscles jump with repressed sobs. Lance rubs a circle into his shoulder blade. He waits.

Lance holds such a different air about him now. He sits like he’s weighed down. The Altean markings are like bags under his eyes, a constant reminder of what he’s lost.

He seems years older.

“We’re gonna’ find a way to get her back,” Shiro assures him later, once he’s found his breath. He knew to grab some tissues from the room this time; he blows his nose and tries not to feel embarrassed. “You know that, right?”

Lance looks at him. His eyes are sad.

“Hey man,” he scolds, and smiles. “Pretty sure I’m the one supposed to be consoling _you_ right now.”

Shiro sniffs and returns the smile, albeit watery.

“We can do both, can’t we?”

Lance chuckles.

“Yeah, okay.”

He grasps Shiro more firmly about the shoulder.

The silence resumes, but it’s companionable. They watch as the midnight shadows shift on the walls. Lance removes his hand to leans back on his palms.

“You know?” he says. “I think I believe you.”

 

—

 

Keith wakes up on a sunny day.

Nurses chatter in the hallway. Krolia’s gone on a search for good tea. Pidge lies asleep, curled like a cat around her computer on one of the recliners. Light finds the gap in the curtains and paints a long yellow stripe down his hospital pod.

Keith's nose twitches first. Then he stirs in tiny increments, his fingers weak where he curls the nails into his palm. It’s Coran who spots movement out of the corner of his eye. He gives a cry like a Yelmore and gestures wildly to the bed. Pidge wakes with a start, nearly falling out of her chair—and then they’re all crowding around.

“Keith!”

“Keith, oh my god!”

“You’re finally awake!”

“Keith!”

“What the hell, Mullethead! You gave us all a heart atta—”

A voice bellows from the doorway: “Make way!”

Shiro was fitted with a translator since his arrival; he registers the words but doesn’t act upon them. Two doctors, no doubt alerted to Keith’s condition by their data pads, shoulder through the Paladin throng. One evaporates the pod’s glass screen. He shines a penlight into Keith’s eyes. The other doctor rushes to his monitors.

“Step back, please!” she snaps at Shiro.

Shiro stands his ground. He knows the doctors don’t need any distractions, but he won’t leave Keith’s side.

“Sir,” one of the doctors says. She sounds tired. “You need to move out of the way. You’ll be able to see him in a mo—”

“Shiro?”

The doctors stop cold. They all look down.

Shiro’s gaze meets Keith’s for the first time in months. His eyes are barely open, slivers of violet against his still-pale face.

Wild bellflowers.  

Keith’s lips turn up in the barest smile. He struggles to lift one hand.

“You came,” he says.

Shiro has become familiar with crying these past few days. He knows he can’t fight the sting in his eyes; the way the first tear catches on his scar.

He wants to say, _of course I came_. He wants to say, _I’m here_. What comes out is a gasp:

“Keith.” It’s all he knows how to say right now. “ _Keith_.”

“Shiro…”

The doctors must read the room, because they let Shiro pass. He presses Keith to his chest, and fits his nose along the groove of Keith’s neck. His tears catch on his hospital gown.

“Hey,” Keith croaks. His hands manage to find Shiro’s back. His cheek turns to brush against Shiro’s.

“I'm so sorry.” Shiro’s hand comes up to cradle Keith’s head. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m—”

“It’s okay.”

“I love you too.”

He feels Keith’s grip tighten around his shirt. Shiro only holds him closer.

“ _I love you too_ , Keith. But I was trapped in the Black Lion and—I’m so sorry. It was too much for me to bear. I was _dead_. I was never going to see you again—not really. And it killed me, sitting up there and watching from afar and knowing I’d never get to hold you or make you laugh or fly with you ever again.” Shiro bunches his fingers around Keith’s hospital gown to try and quell the shaking. “I couldn’t torture myself with it anymore. I didn’t see a reason to hold on when there was no chance of coming back. So I just—buried it. Everything I loved. My bond with the Paladins; with Black; with _you_.”

He finds the courage to draw back. Their eyes meet again; Keith’s are wet and stunned. Shiro cups his face between his hands.

“Allura couldn’t pull it out of the Black Lion,” he says. “I had to find it myself. But I remember now. I got it all back. _I got it all back,_ Keith.”

“You…” Keith’s gaze flicks down. “Shiro.”

With a baby foal’s strength he tugs at Shiro’s left hand. Shiro lifts it under his direction. He allows Keith to turn it this way and that, seeking a familiar glimmer under the light. “Your ring—”

“Gone,” Shiro says, with total conviction.  

“Since _when?_ ”

“Months ago. It should’ve been sooner. It shouldn’t have happened at all. If I had known—“

And then Keith crashes their lips together.  

A heart monitor is going crazy, somewhere miles away. Shiro can feel his own heartbeat pounding marks into his chest. Keith kisses Shiro like a dying man, like he’s desperate to memorize him before he disappears. Shiro presses Keith back against the pillows. He goes slow—coaxes him into a more relaxed pace. _I’m not going anywhere_ , he means to say. He presses the unspoken words to Keith’s skin and lips. The hand still holding Shiro’s left shifts until their fingers are knitted. _Never again._

At last, after so many long years of separation and hardship—they’ve arrived. Shiro kisses Keith, and Keith kisses back, and Shiro has come home.

It’s their friends who pull them apart. Shiro gets the sense they were recruited by the hospital staff. With great reluctance he allows his fingers to unthread from Keith’s. It’s not a galaxy or a broken consciousness that separates them this time, but a few measly feet. And Shiro can still feel Keith’s touch as he steps back. It’s more than muscle memory; the Black Lion has bonded with both of them now.

They’re connected.

“We’re going to perform a few tests, Keith,” one of the doctors says. She wraps a thin cuff around his wrist, presumably to test his blood pressure. “You should rest. Your friends will be here when you wake up, and your mother’s on her way.”

Keith tilts his head on the pillow to look at his friends. They hoot and holler at him; the doctors seem to muster the remains of their self control. Keith smiles wide and wobbly. He scrubs his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Hey guys.”

Shiro squeezes their part of the thread—so gently, like how he’d squeeze Keith’s fingers.  

Keith’s eyes find his. He squeezes back, and Shiro knows they’ll never be apart again.

**Author's Note:**

> CREDITS
> 
> The line, "Keith doesn’t call, so Shiro does the smart thing and doesn’t speak to anyone for 72 hours" is lifted almost verbatim from [a Sherlock fic called "Aftermath."](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7974263/1/Aftermath) The original line is, "He does the logical thing and does not eat, sleep or speak for seventy-two hours." It's one of those sentences that stick with you for years...
> 
> There's also a similar fic out there somewhere, where Shiro forces himself to forget about his feelings for Keith (more specifically, their relationship) during his time as a prisoner. I can't find it at the moment, but if anyone knows what I'm talking about please link it to me so I can credit it properly! I feel like I might've gotten the idea from there. 
> 
> P.S. NO THE THREE OF THEM AREN'T BONDED TOGETHER ALL THE TIME I PROMISE KEITH AND SHIRO CAN BLOCK OUT THE BLACK LION IF THEY WANT SOME PRIVACY LOL


End file.
